“Your Grace,” Lord Brickenridge said with a bow, “might I claim the next dance? I promise to return you safely to your husband.”
Eleanor nodded graciously, though her attention remained divided between Lord Brickenridge’s polite conversation and the duke’s location across the ballroom. As they took their positions for the country dance, she caught sight of a woman with striking auburn hair approaching her husband with the caution of a woman about to poke a sleeping beast.
Even from this distance, Eleanor could see the immediate change in her husband’s posture—the way his shoulders went rigid, how his careful social mask slipped for just a moment. The auburn-haired woman stepped closer than propriety dictated, her gloved hand reaching toward his arm in a gesture that spoke of past intimacy. Eleanor couldn’t miss the intensity in thewoman’s expression, the passionate way she leaned toward her husband as she spoke.
She had to be Lady Laura.
Something sharp and unpleasant twisted in Eleanor’s chest. She had no claim on his affections—their marriage was a business arrangement, nothing more—yet the sight of him in such close conversation with his former love stirred a bewildering possessiveness within her. No, she was merely concerned about Damien humiliating her before theton, she told herself.
Eleanor stumbled slightly in the dance steps, earning a concerned look from Lord Brickenridge. “Are you quite well, Your Grace?”
“Perfectly,” she lied, forcing herself to focus on the dance while stealing glances at the intense conversation unfolding across the room. The Duke of Westmore remained perfectly still, but Eleanor could sense his tension even at this distance.
When the dance concluded, Eleanor made her excuses to Lord Brickenridge and moved purposefully through the crowd toward her husband. But as she approached, she saw Lady Laura turn away abruptly, her face rosy and damp with tears as she hurried toward the ballroom’s exit.
Eleanor reached the duke just as he watched Laura’s retreating figure with an expression of profound concern.
“We should leave,” he said without preamble, his voice tight with controlled emotion. “I find I’m rather fatigued by the evening’s excitement. Would you object to an early departure, Duchess?”
Eleanor was all too happy to agree but also wondered about the effect Lady Laura had on her husband who had appeared untouchable until now. The ballroom suddenly felt oppressive, filled with complications she hadn’t anticipated.
As their carriage pulled away from Harrington House, Eleanor settled against the plush velvet squabs, her purple gown pooling around her like liquid starlight. She fought to push away the sharp twist of jealousy that had lodged in her chest since witnessing her husband’s intense conversation with Lady Laura, but the emotion clung to her.
The carriage swayed gently as it navigated London’s cobbled streets, each jolt sending tremors through her body that had nothing to do with the uneven road. She studied her husband’s profile in the amber wash of passing streetlamps—the sharp angle of his jaw, the way shadows carved his cheekbones into aristocratic perfection, the tension radiating from every line of his powerful frame.
Whatever had passed between him and Lady Laura tonight had clearly affected him deeply. The memory of their whispered conversation, the intimate way the woman had touched his arm, the obvious distress on both their faces—all of it fed the growing fire of possessiveness Eleanor was struggling to contain.
“Did you have a lovely reunion with your former lover?” The words escaped before she could temper them, edged with jealousy.
Her husband’s head turned toward her, green eyes glittering in the half-light. “About as lovely as you appeared to find Lord Croft’s attentions.” His voice was silk over steel. “I wasn’t aware you two were such intimate acquaintances.”
“We’re not.” Eleanor’s pulse quickened at his predatory focus. “Despite his elaborate claims to the contrary. Though he seemed remarkably… fascinated by you.”
“Fascinated.” His tongue caressed the word like he was tasting something forbidden. “And what secrets did the good viscount hope to extract from my beautiful wife?”
Heat bloomed in Eleanor’s chest at the possessive way he said my wife. “Your business abroad.” She leaned forwardslightly, drawn by some invisible force. “Subjects about which I maintained complete ignorance, naturally.”
“How perfectly convenient,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips, “that our arrangement leaves you so deliciously uninformed about my affairs.”
“Almost as convenient as your failure to mention Lady Laura would be there to gaze at you like a starving woman contemplating a feast.” Eleanor’s voice had grown breathless despite her efforts to maintain composure.
Damien’s laugh was low and dangerous. “Laura chose her path three years ago.”
“Did she?” Eleanor found herself leaning closer, intoxicated by his nearness. “Because she looked like a woman drowning in regret.”
Something predatory flickered in his eyes as he shifted on the seat, closing the space between them with deliberate intent. “I believe, my darling wife,” he said, his voice dropping to a rumble that she felt in her bones, “you are jealous.”
The accusation hung between them, charged with electricity. Eleanor’s breath caught as he moved closer still, near enough that she could smell his cologne—bergamot and sandalwood—and something masculine that made her head spin.
“I hardly know you,” she whispered, even as every cell in her body strained toward him. “Our arrangement—”
“Is temporary,” he finished, his large hand rising to cup her face with devastating gentleness. “Yet I find myself increasingly dissatisfied with temporary, Eleanor.” His thumb traced her lower lip with maddening slowness. “Especially when I watched another man’s hands on what belongs to me.”
The raw possession in his voice sent liquid fire racing through her veins. Before she could form a coherent response, he eliminated the final inches between them, his mouth claiminghers with a hunger that spoke of weeks of restraint finally shattered.
This was conquest, pure and primal. His lips moved against hers with devastating skill, coaxing and demanding until she opened for him with a soft moan that seemed to inflame him further.
Eleanor’s hands moved without conscious thought, one fisting in the fine wool of his evening coat, the other sliding up to tangle in the dark silk of his hair. She felt his powerful arm snake around her waist, hauling her against him until the boning of her corset pressed into his chest and the expensive silk of her skirts bunched between them.